


A V. Bridget Christmas

by S_Faith



Series: My Own Little Sub-Universe [12]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-24
Updated: 2007-12-24
Packaged: 2019-03-14 13:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13591014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Christmas is the time for feelings of good will and generosity of spirit… and for Christmas miracles.





	A V. Bridget Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> V. much fluff and silliness, with appearances by canon characters (the parents) as well as a semi-canon (a brother) and two all-around total original characters (a friend and uncle). You may get lost if you haven't read the stories they're in—but then again, you may not.
> 
> Because the holidays are for surrounding oneself with loved ones, blood relations or not, whichever holiday you choose to celebrate.
> 
> Disclaimer: Really, truly, not mine.

As Mark Darcy returned to the living room and looked upon the concerned faces of gathered family and friends, he tried very hard not to show any emotion on his own countenance.

"So? How's Bridget doing in there?" asked Bridget's father Colin.

"She's fine," piped up her mother Pam confidently. "She's a natural in the kitchen."

"A natural disaster, perhaps," said Mark's uncle in a wry tone of voice.

"Oh, Nicholas, I'm sure she's doing great," said Mark's mother Elaine, addressing her brother. Mark's father nodded in agreement.

"So she's been in there all day," said Uncle Nick drolly, addressing Mark.

"Yes."

"Alone?" continued the interrogation.

"Yes."

Mark could tell his venerable uncle was trying very hard not to let it show how much this worried him.

"With a cookbook, I presume," he added, partly under his breath.

"Yes."

"So how _are_ things going in there?" asked Mark's brother Peter. "It sure smells good."

"I don't know," Mark confessed, taking a seat upon the sofa. "She wouldn't let me in."

"Perhaps the two medics in the room could be pressed into service if needed," replied Nick, glancing to his nephew as well as to Mark's friend Hugh.

"Very funny," said Peter crossly. "I'm sure Bridget would be appalled at the lack of confidence in her culinary skills by her own family."

"Spoken by a man who has clearly never eaten her cooking," retorted Nick, clearly recalling the horrendous fried breakfast she'd once attempted for Mark, Nick and Hugh. Mark knew that breakfast had jumped to the forefront of his own recollection.

"It's Christmas, time for feelings of good will and generosity of spirit," said Elaine.

"And for Christmas miracles," added Nick.

" _Nicholas_ ," said Elaine sharply, throwing him a dirty look.

There was a dead silence that followed, then a nervous clearing of throats.

"She does make a fairly competent sandwich," admitted Nick.

"And she can slice an apple like a pro," added Hugh brightly.

"I remember once she baked a cake for my birthday when she was still at home," reminisced Colin. "The oven still isn't quite right, but it was very tasty."

"She's much improved since the last time she tried to cook for any of you," spoke up Mark, who'd realised he'd better show some support for his wife or feel the pain of it later if she learned he hadn't. "She's gotten quite good."

Seven pairs of incredulous eyes met his.

"Really," Mark added. "She makes dinner all the time."

"Define 'all the time'," said Nick.

"Very frequently." At Nick's pointed look, he added, "At least twice a week."

"And do you keep the bottle of antacids in your pocket on those days too?"

Mark's hand flew to his jacket pocket protectively. "It's a large dinner and I often overeat at the holidays. I was just being prepared."

"Sure," teased his friend Hugh.

Mark realised he'd better stop talking before he dug himself in any deeper.

"I think you're all exaggerating," said Peter defensively. "We'll be eating soon enough. The proof will be in the pudding."

Pam Jones nodded in agreement, sharing a look with Malcolm as he nodded, then they both looked to Mark.

"I hope the only extra thing in the pudding is a coin," commented Nick.

………

She could hardly stand the suspense.

She had followed Magda's advice to the letter, had sequestered herself in the kitchen for the entire day, calling her friend every half hour or so in a panic; thank God for patient Smug Married friends. Everything smelled fantastic, tasted incredibly good, but she had no idea how much of that was wishful thinking rather than reality.

She glanced to the clock. Time to face the music. Hopefully she wouldn't kill or poison her loved ones.

………

"Well? What do you think?"

Nick noticed the way in which Bridget was staring specifically at him. "I haven't had a taste yet, child."

Nick also noticed that the other guests had not dared lift a fork to their mouths until he had done so first, presumably to get his opinion on it before they took the dive themselves. He looked to the plate before him. Bridget had really gone all out for Christmas dinner: roast turkey, gravy, roast potatoes, cranberry sauce, Brussels sprouts with chestnuts, parsnips and swede, and a dark, fragrant stuffing. He had to admit it smelled very good, but she had such a unique talent for cooking catastrophes he wouldn't have been surprised if it somehow didn't taste the way it smelled.

He couldn't keep her on tenterhooks any longer, as much as he hated to crush her spirits, so he cut a small portion of the turkey on his plate, swabbed it through a puddle of gravy and took it into his mouth, chewing slowly, deliberately after withdrawing the fork. Shortly after, he ate a forkful of stuffing, a few speared sprouts.

He instantly wondered if Mark always covered for his wife with little white lies. Cooked this on her own, indeed. The silence around him was deafening though, so he raised his steel blue eyes to meet Bridget's and give his pronouncement on the meal:

"This is… magnificent."

He watched as she blinked in disbelief. With Peter leading the pack, her family began to eat, and Nick saw each face lit up with delight. They began to converse with one another, murmuring their approval.

"Really?" she asked in amazement at last, a bright, beaming smile spreading across her face.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw several heads nod in unison. Nick thought she might actually start to cry.

………

Hugh had remembered the infamous fried breakfast all too well, remembered the way Nick had smiled and choked down Bridget's horrendous cooking that particular morning. So for Hugh to now have a moment of hesitation before putting a forkful in his own mouth was completely understandable.

Instead of the dry, chewy turkey he expected to find, instead of the oily, tasteless gravy desperately in need of salt, a savoury taste explosion hit his tongue. He made an embarrassing sound of surprise, which he was quick to turn into approval.

He looked over to Mark, who was grinning as he ate his own dinner, before he glanced over to Nick. The man looked genuinely perplexed, which honestly, Hugh could understand.

………

Peter watched his uncle take that first tentative bite before making his proclamation, but he hardly waited for the words to come out of Nick's mouth before he ate a Brussels sprout.

Then a speared slice of parsnip and a chestnut.

Then a forkful of cranberry sauce, a chunk of roasted potato, and a scrap of turkey, followed quickly by stuffing and gravy.

Peter was the first one to clear his plate.

………

If he had been asked by anyone else in the world but Bridget to put a paper crown on his head, Nick never would have done it. Gamely though, everyone had done so, and there was much laughing and trading of terrible punny jokes from their Christmas crackers. Nick had not been paying much attention. He had had difficulty thinking about anything else but one of the best Christmas dinners he'd ever had.

"Everyone up for some coffee with Christmas pudding?" asked Bridget, stirring Nick from his reflection.

There were general murmurs of assent around the table, and with a proud grin, Bridget got up and departed from the room.

As soon she was out of earshot, it seemed, his nephew Peter piped up with commentary: "You thought _that_ was going to be a disgusting dinner? Are you all mad?"

"Of course it wasn't disgusting," said Pam, clucking like the very pleased mother hen that she was. "It was perfect."

Nick said with a smirk, "All right, Mark. You can tell us now. You helped, didn't you?"

"No," Mark said. His expression was the epitome of honesty; his poker face was astoundingly good.

"Okay, then Elaine—you must have gone in there." Elaine shook her head vehemently. "Mrs Jones. You?"

"Oh, heavens no." Pamela shook her head too, to reiterate her answer in the negative. "This gravy's been sieved, not stirred."

Nick made a dismissive sound. Someone must have been in there with her.

Peter piped up. "Don't be such an arse, Nick. She made a wonderful meal, and she made it by herself."

"Under penalty of perjury," said Mark at last, glancing across the table to his uncle to fix him with a piercing gaze, "neither did I help Bridget nor did anyone else."

Nick was still skeptical, but decided to let it drop.

………

It had been such a pleasure to see his sons happy and joking together after so long had passed with no communication. And what a darling girl, that wife of Mark's, thought his father as he took in a bite of pudding, his paper crown sinking down over one eye.

………

"Delicious," Malcolm said. "Outstanding, every last bite."

"Indeed," said Nick. "This is a crowning achievement. Very good indeed."

"Maybe that breakfast she made us was an _intentional_ effort to get us out of her newlywed home," quipped Hugh.

Bridget laughed, beaming with pride, obviously realising Hugh was joking.

"Oh, but we had our Doubting Thomas moment, didn't we, Nick," said Elaine teasingly to her brother.

Bridget looked surprised.

"The moment you left to make coffee, he started grilling us. He was certain you must have had help," said Peter.

"I did call Magda a few times," Bridget said in an offended tone, "but I did it all, on my own."

"That's what I told them," said Mark in a placating tone, glancing to her across the table. "I had every faith in you."

"Every faith," quipped Nick, "and a bottle of Tums in your pocket."

Bridget looked horrified. " _Mark_."

"As I explained," says Mark, shooting daggers from his eyes at his uncle, "I was only afraid that I might overeat."

"A likely story," murmured Nick, smirking.

"Believe what you will," Mark said darkly.

Nick figured he'd best keep further comments to himself lest his nephew hide the good scotch.

"Good thing we have more than one spare guest room, Mark," said Bridget, "because at this rate, you may need it." Although her tone was light and several others around the table chuckled, Nick watched Mark turn his eyes down, saw Mark's expression change to one of regret. When Nick then saw the burgeoning pout of Bridget's mouth, he realised he'd better make amends to her. To both of them.

"Bridget, child, forgive me. I was only curious, and even you'll admit that my experiences with your cooking have not been all that positive. You have done a fantastic job today, though. I never meant to slight you in any way."

She blinked, then smiled, then got to her feet. Within moments he felt her arms about him, felt her peck his cheek. _Silly over-expressive girl_ , he thought, clearing his throat.

She then circled the table and put her arms around her husband's shoulders, kissing him on the cheek too. She said something into his ear that was too quiet for Nick to hear, but from the way Mark smiled, Nick knew there would be no banishing to the guest room this evening.

………

"One of the more excellent Christmases I've had in some time."

There in the darkened room, Mark stood before the lit tree, his arm about his wife's waist. She was leaning into him and embracing him around the waist as well.

"I won't ask you if you're just saying that to keep on my good side," she said in a playful tone, "and out of the spare room."

He pressed a kiss into the top of her head, chuckling softly. "This will be a holiday to remember. All of the family—and Hugh, who's practically family—together for Christmas dinner for the first time in many years. And Nick rendered speechless about your fantastic meal on top of it all."

"Though it wasn't the first time my cooking has rendered him speechless," she said, a small sigh interrupting her bright tine. "I _have_ been responsible for some pretty appalling meals in the past. Like I said earlier, I guess I don't really blame you for wanting some Tums close at hand."

He tightened his hold on her briefly, smiling again. "I'm glad you're so gracious and understanding."

"No one got food poisoning or died. I'm feeling very generous."

With Peter and Nick gone back to their respective homes, with both his parents and the Joneses well on their way back to Grafton Underwood, Hugh crashed out in the guest room, and Bridget in such a happy mood, Mark thought it might be a fine time to whisk her away upstairs. "Come on," he said, turning for the door. "Let's go to bed."

She nodded. "It's been a very long day."

As they ascended the stairs, she asked quietly, "You did remember to put Hugh in the farther of the two bedrooms, didn't you?"

_The end._


End file.
